Six Months
by Dame March Dolcetto
Summary: (alt. end to s3) There is no message from Moriarty. The plane does not turn back. After six months pass, Sherlock gives his brother a call. In the end, Mycroft is never wrong.
1. The Call

**Six Months**

* * *

It had been almost six months since Sherlock's exile and subsequent departure, four months since he'd last heard from his brother in person, three months since he'd last spoken with him through calls, and two months since his brother had been officially declared MIA. The mission he'd been assigned was a difficult one. They wouldn't have asked for a Holmes to personally handle it had it not been something beyond the scope of the normal people, but this one was, statistically speaking, almost literally impossible. By his own calculations, Sherlock would be set to fail after six months.

Over the course of that time, Sherlock had informed him that he'd been taken captive seven times, four times due his own planning and thrice due to ambush. He'd escaped unaided four times, managed to sabotage operations from within two times (once with a home-made bomb he'd brewed in the toilet, once by poisoning a water tank), and had only ever needed assistance once. What he'd had to discover through his own sources was that, in addition to the seven Sherlock had informed him of, he'd been taken captive an additional three times, in which two of his escapes could be credited to the mass escapes as staged by others around him while the last barely even counted as a capture, given that he had literally slipped his bonds while they were taking him to their prisons, sneaking through the jungles when no one was looking.

His brother was as slippery as the quicksilver that colored his eyes and the fact filled him with pride. But he couldn't deny that he ached to try and pull each and every connection he had in order to get him back at his side, on this side of the continent. Despite having already attempted so, he has wanted to try again each night that's ended without word from or about his brother.

And so, when his phone rings and he sees the call is from one 'Altamont', he does not hesitate.

"Mycroft."

After all that time, it was a shock to hear his brother's voice. More so given how exhausted he sounded.

"Hello, brother mine," he says, soft. "How goes the mission?"

Sherlock's breath came out in short, harsh, rasps, slow and stuttering. In the background, he could hear screaming, fire, burning. Was that gunfire or thunder that was sounding in the distance? The connection was weak; what should've been obvious was frustratingly unclear.

"It's done."

"What happened?" he breathes. "What happened?"

"They're dead," he coughs out. "Hermann von Bork. Baron von Herling. You were right. They were the ones responsible for the Altamont attacks. I'd infiltrated their base," he narrates. "Disguised myself as one of their men. Then I destroyed all the impertinent - impertinent pieces of equipment before setting the rest on - on fire." His voice was starting to waver; he was gasping for breath every second word. "That was when they found me."

"Did they hurt you?" he asks, suddenly feeling very young, very small. The answer was obvious. There was an urge - an irrational, childish urge - to demand names, to seek retribution. To have heads on pikes. But, instead, he asks: "Was it them?"

"They - " Sherlock grunts. "We fought. I killed them. Then I fell."

There's a brief pause in which there is not much to hear but the sound of Sherlock gasping for breath, his energy apparently spent. The sound of fire seems to grow ever closer.

"How high?" he has to ask. "From how high did you fall?"

"Four floors," he grunts. "Off a balcony. Landed badly on a rosebush."

"What is the extent of your injuries?" he asks urgently, already ready to research, to recall, the most effective first aid for whatever damage his brother has had inflicted onto himself. "Will you be able to treat yourself?"

He hears his brother take a deep breath, just a bit stronger now.

"Comminuted fractures in the right leg. Oblique fracture in right arm," his brother rattles off, sounding just a bit steadier now. "Three ribs cracked. Stab wound in abdominal area. Bleeding is non-arterial but..." he has to pause to take a breath, his earlier energy having left him after the initial outburst. "Massive blood loss has occurred. I was unconscious," he adds almost hesitantly. "For some time after falling."

For a few moments, Mycroft cannot speak. There is nothing to say. Nothing to do. Nothing that could be done. Beneath the heavy, rasping sound of his brother's breaths, the sound of fire, of burning, splintering wood, seemed to grow louder and louder.

"The fire," he manages. "How close are you to the fire?"

He hears Sherlock grunt. "Two metres," he says, after some time. "Rolled down the hill when I fell."

He swallows. "You've succeeded?"

"Obv - " he coughs, the sound wet and heavy. "Obviously," he says, with some force. "I've succeeded. They're gone."

"Well done," he acknowledges numbly. "Congratulations."

For a few moments, there is, once more, nothing but the sound of Sherlock's tired breaths, the sound of the fires burning in background. The sounds of screaming had long since abated. Then, finally, it is Sherlock who breaks the silence.

"I lost my cyanide pills," he confesses, his breathing ragged, heavy. "I lost my gun in the fight. I lost my knife when I fell." His brother let out a deep, choking breath. "It's cold, Mycroft."

He closes his eyes. "I know," he says, and there are a million things he wishes he could say, a million things he wishes he could do. Behind the sound of his brother's breath, the crackling of flames seem to grow louder and louder.

"I'm cold."

"It will be alright, Sherlock," he finds himself saying. "It will all be over soon."

There's a sound that could've been a laugh. He imagines his brother choking on his own blood and hates himself for it. "'Over... soon...'" Sherlock parrots, his voice regaining just a bit of his old disdain. "God, Mycroft... that's dull... even for you..."

He manages a delicate sniff. "You say I'm dull when the ones you call your 'best friends' are the dullest people to ever grace this good country."

"John's not dull," he protests, albeit only weakly, haltingly. "At the very least, he's much less dull than everyone else. And Mary - " he coughs, the motion seeming to send him shuddering, his grasp on the phone shaking before he recovers. "Mary is an ex-assassin... that's... less dull..."

"That does not take away from the fact that, together, they are the most sickeningly simpering display of marital bliss to ever grace my surveillance feeds," he says simply. "Oftentimes, I wonder whether it's still worth the effort to have them watched."

"You're - " Sherlock had to stop to take in a short gasp of breath. " - still having them watched?"

"Of course. As you yourself would have done," he answers. "For their own protection," he adds with a nod, despite knowing it wouldn't be seen. "Mrs. Watson has many enemies. John has inherited many of yours."

"Oh." For once, the silence on his brother's side of the line doesn't seem to be from exhaustion. Knowing that made him feel almost, for a moment, like himself again. like his brother were safe somewhere far, far from eastern Europe and its fires. The moment ends all too quickly. "Thank you," he says hesitantly.

He bows his head, even knowing it wouldn't be seen. "Only for you, little brother," he murmurs. Then, without meaning to, without planning to, he continues:

"Mary Watson has given birth," he lets out, all a rush. "The girl's name is Rosamund Mary. John Watson has named you godfather."

He has to keep speaking, he has to keep hearing Sherlock's voice. So long as he kept talking, so long as Sherlock is talking, Sherlock is not going to go away. He has to believe it. It is irrational but he has to believe it. He has to believe in something. He is a rational man but if there was ever a time to believe in something as irrational as a miracle, it was this.

Even obviously exhausted, his brother still found the strength to sound surprised. "Godfather?" Sherlock's voice sounded befuddled. "Me?"

"Yes, brother dear." he has to force himself to sound normal. "It's - it's common for people to - to name their best friend the caretaker of their child."

Sherlock once again let out what now passed as a laugh for him. "Won't have much... opportunity for that, now," he says, tone sardonic. Then, there was a quiet, quiet pause during which Mycroft had to close his eyes, count back from ten and mentally recall a list he'd hated himself for preparing all those months ago, when Sherlock had first left the country, when Sherlock speaks again. "Will you... substitute...?"

His voice is very soft, very weak. Mycroft aches to take any one of the many phones hidden within his desk and call for a helicopter, a jet, anything that could help his brother but he doesn't do so. He is a rational man. Miracles were an impossibility. There was no more time and it was far too late and everyone was too far away and he couldn't bear to put down the phone with his brother's voice, wouldn't have done so for knowledge of the world in its entirety, wouldn't have done so if the queen or an emperor or God Himself had ordered him to do so.

"Of course," he says, blinking. "I will do everything in my power to assure the Watsons a long and - and prosperous life, as well as you yourself would have done." It is difficult, so very difficult, to keep his voice as it was. "Same with Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and Miss - Miss Hooper. I swear it."

He hears his brother swallow, loud and pained. "Make... sure of it," he rasps.

For a few seconds, Sherlock's end of the line is quiet save for the sound of his own breathing, the sound of fire crackling. Then he speaks.

"It's beautiful here," he breathes, voice filled with an exhausted reverence. "Sparks going up into the sky. Like fireworks in reverse."

His hand is shaking. "I'm sure it is," he agrees. "Perhaps we could arrange for a bonfire, upon your return to Baker Street."

There is a quiver in his own breath. Before now, he might've found such displays pathetic.

Sherlock makes a gurgling sound he realizes is a weak, drowned laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft," he rasps. "We both know... how this is going to end..."

He swallows and hopes that Sherlock did not hear. "I could arrange for one anyway," he suggests. "Call it an anniversary gift for Mummy and Daddy."

His brother manages a snort. "Fifty-six years," he drawls. "Not exactly... a milestone."

Despite himself, he grins without meaning to. It is wide and hurts his cheeks and feels painfully unnatural on his face. "Some would say otherwise."

"They're wrong."

Then, unexpectedly, Sherlock laughs, as clear and strong as he had when he'd been in London, in safety, among his friends and people who cared for him. "God, Mycroft," he chuckles. "The last thing i'm ever going to hear and it's you." He laughs some more and the sounds of fire, burning and destruction that has been at the backdrop of his side of their conversation all seem to quiet, all seem to fade into the background. "What a joke."

Sherlock's breathing begins to slow.

"What a joke..."

He hears the sound of plastic clattering against hard stone. The phone must've fallen from his brother's grasp. There are no sounds to indicate that his brother has made any attempts to pick it back up. He hears his brother's breathing loudly against his own ear; the phone must've fallen within the vicinity of Sherlock's mouth.

"Over soon..." Sherlock murmurs, only barely audible and only then because Mycroft would sooner die than let his brother go unheard.

"Yes," he echoes in between his own shaking breaths. "It will all be over soon."

Sherlock's breathing seems to come easier. The sounds of fire quiet and the screams fade. The wind is howling in eastern Europe, loud and cold and strong.

Mycroft closes his eyes.

Then Sherlock takes a deep breath, the sound almost liquid, and releases it in a single, great sigh. He thinks he might have heard relief in his voice but he doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to consider it. There was a word, he thinks, his brother had only half-said as he'd released that breath but he doesn't know what it was. The fact that even he had not been able to comprehend it would haunt him after.

Sherlock does not breathe any more after. The phone is silent.

Mycroft clutches the phone to his ear and forces himself to listen, holding his own breath. There is nothing to hear but fire and smoke, wood splintering and glass shattering. There are no more voices to hear, no more breathing to listen to. Mycroft only presses the phone closer to his ear, praying for the first time since he'd been a child, standing voiceless, motionless and breathless in the centre of his office, waiting. Only waiting. Waiting for his brother to speak.

He remains standing there, waiting, phone still pressed against his ear, long after the tone signalling the disconnection has replaced the sounds of eastern Europe, destruction, and his brother.

But there is nothing.


	2. Aftermath

**AN: Thanks for the feedback, folks. As a bonus, have a follow-up thing. I wasn't all that sure about whether or not I should post this but I ended up liking it enough. So... enjoy. Or cry. Or something.**

 **Aftermath:** **Ashes, Ashes**

* * *

Hours pass before he regained some measure of composure and longer still before he could finally bring himself to peel the phone away from his ear, though it had already been hours since the battery on that phone had die - been _drained_. In spite, or perhaps because, of this, it takes him only one hour to make all the necessary arrangements to have his brother found. If he cared to notice, that was easily past record time.

He did not notice. He wouldn't have cared if he did.

His people are efficient. Planes fly, his people bearing arms and armor, tasers and trackers. All in all, the whole of journey took less than a day to make.

(which meant, of course, he thinks bitterly to himself, that the journey took far too long)

He had people scour where his brother had made his call, tracking it using his phone's last known location. They found ashes and debris, the charred skeleton of what had once been a magnificent building, and absolutely no traces of anyone having survived.

(despite this, he hopes. It is foolish, idiotic, and beyond irrational... but he hopes)

They found corpses, half-mangled, half-rotten. They found bones laying amidst the ashes, burnt remnants of flesh still clinging to their since-charred surfaces. They found bodies almost untouched by decomposition, faces still in recognizable expressions of shock, half their bodies ripped apart from the waist down.

And they found —

And they found — _!_

He forces himself to take a deep breath.

(hope is a gentle, comforting caress. dashed hopes are a serrated blade to the chest. It burns)

They found _him_ , too.

(he used to be the Iceman. Now, he supposes the dampness staining his cheeks is sign enough that he has thawed)

He had been there himself, of course. He would not have done his brother the disrespect of doing anything less. He was there when they found all that had been left of him.

What little that had been there.

(when under pressure, ice shattered. He did not shatter under pressure)

He —

Sherlock, he had always been the tallest of the Holmes siblings. He was a beansprout, a lanky, stretched-out skeleton of a child too large for the skin he'd been given.

But now —

(now, he, Mycroft, shattered)

He had looked so small.

(ergo, he was no Iceman)

He is not strong. He is no soldier, no warrior. He is an overseer on an ivory tower. He is the watchman of the United Kingdom's panopticons.

And yet, he tries, regardless, to bear his brother's weight one last time. It was difficult. Sherlock, he was a d —

(he was human)

He was a — !

(with all the emotions that humanity entailed.)

He inhales sharply once through his nose. Releases it in a harsh hiss of breath through his teeth.

His brother was a dead weight in his arms. Heavy, inert, still, and lifeless he was _dead,_ there was no point in denying it, his brother was _dead_ and he'd heard him _die_ and there'd been nothing he could've possibly done to save him.

Nothing. Most powerful man in the British government and he'd been powerless to do anything but give his brother the honor of knowing that he wasn't going to die alone, unheard. He was dead, his brother. Sherlock, he was dead. He was dead.

Without meaning to, without _wanting_ to, he places a hand over his brother's heart.

There was nothing, no sensation, no movement, no warmth —

— he breaks.

His men are efficient. They scour the remnants of the enemy base with a thoroughness worthy of their training. There, they find plans and information on enemies to the nation, secrets and stories enough to unravel at least six organizations that threatened the stability of the British government. With the deaths of Hermann von Bork and the Baron von Herling, and the destruction of the base in eastern Europe, his brother had effectively assured the end of their schemes, of their machinations, as well as provided them with information invaluable to their cause. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that his brother had not only succeeded in the mission but had also far surpassed everyone's expectations beyond belief. Even Mycroft's.

His brother was to be honored for this. His exile was to be declared officially ended and he was to be awarded many times over. He was to receive knighthoods from the queen herself, honors from the British government. His brother would be known in history, when all was said and done.

He doesn't care.

(what was the point of honoring a pile of ashes?)

They return to the planes, his men laden with salvaged files. Half-burned papers and heat-warped flash drives, those were — those were still salvageable, unlike —

Him. He could not be salvaged.

He rides with Sherlock all the way back to London. The smell was horrific. Mycroft didn't care.

It had been years since they'd done it but he held his brother's hand, clasped it hard and tight. Sherlock's hand was cold and stiff and pliant despite rigor mortis. The hand stays cold and still in his hand. Pliant, if he tried hard enough. The hand stays cold, still, and cold and still and —

And here, Mycroft cared.

(he would say that he broke but he'd already been broken)

They're back on English soil when they tell him.

They had also found the phone.

It was an ugly thing. All battered, black plastic and chipped glass, the model was ancient but durable, a fact only enhanced by how heavily they'd modified it. It had survived the explosions and fire, survived the fight and the fall. Even now, it still had two remaining bars of charge.

The dial-pad was stained with blood. Mycroft recognizes the stained numbers as his own.

The screen was similarly speckled with oxidized blood.

He closes his eyes and remembers the sound of a breath, a single, loud sigh, an almost liquid noise. He remembers the quiet after, a silence near absolute save for the crackling of flames in the background.

He opens his eyes. Releases his brother's hand. Slips the phone into his pocket with a brief gesture of thanks for Anthea.

Then, dry-eyed, with more composure now than he'd had in the past few hours, he brings out his own phone and makes a few calls. He could still do this. This much, he could do —

* * *

He presses the sim card of what had been Sherlock's phone inside a small, silver locket, one he'd owned since childhood. Sherlock had once worn its twin, just as their parents still did. Their parents wore theirs around their necks. Sherlock's, he knew, was in a vault in Baker street. His own locket was kept in the inside of his tie, the pendant a steady weight against his chest, the sim card tucked away behind the photos of him and his family, _all_ of his family, when he himself had been young.

The phone itself, he adds to the pyre.

For all intents and purposes, Sherlock was, he was back in Baker street and he - he had meant it when he said it.

It was a promise, as far as he was concerned. The bonfire.

The pyre is a good one. Firewood stacked as high as he was tall. Plenty of kindling scattered about. The whole arrangement reeks of gasoline. The wind blows the fumes into his eyes and makes them water.

His vision blurs and he thinks he can see a flash of his brother's hair through the wood and logs that made the pyre, thinks he can see his brother laying amongst the kindling as if it were a nest, but when he blinks, the illusion breaks and he sees it for the mirage that it was. To think, he'd once prided himself on his lack of sentimentality.

His brother - his brother was not here. his brother was in an upstate funeral parlor midway between his and his parents' home. There was to be a funeral a week from now, once morticians finished putting his brother back together into some semblance of a living being, finished knitting his skin and gluing his bones back together and —

He inhales. Exhales.

Whatever the morticians were to do was immaterial. There was to be a funeral. As per Sherlock's own wishes, whatever organs that could salvaged were to be donated for the advancement of scientific studies. The rest — the rest would be cremated. Dates would be set into the old tombstone and, finally, it would fulfill its intended purpose.

He still has yet to tell John or Mrs. Hudson or Mary or Lestrade or Molly about what was coming. He'd wondered once, briefly, whether it would be kinder not to tell.

(for him or for them? If it ached to remember then having to say the words themselves...)

He would, of course. They would've known regardless. It would be on the news, in some way. Though the exact nature of his death would be kept secret, the fact that he, Sherlock was awarded with high honors, that his exile had been declared ended in light of his services to the British government, would not. They would know, regardless. It would be a kindness to tell them himself.

But he would not tell them now. For now, he was alone. Even Anthea, even his bodyguards, even his security team - he'd urged them all to protect him from a distance. Just this one time. Just this one, single time, he would ask for privacy from even his people, even disregarding his safety.

 _God, Mycroft_ , he remembers the words. _That's dull even for you._

He closes his eyes and sets it alight.

The roar of flames, the crackling of wood — it's the same as what he'd heard back then. Yesterday. The day before that. All that's missing is his brother's breath and he knew —

(he ached. He would never not ache)

— he knew that was gone forever.

Mycroft looks up to the sky. It really was a beautiful sight, the brilliant orange sparks dancing heavenward, stark against the dark of night. Like fireworks in reverse, as his brother put it.

He wonders if this really was what Sherlock saw, before he died.

He leans back against the wall of Baker street, eyes fixed on the bonfire in front of him.

"Your bonfire, little brother," he whispers. "As I promised."

There are hundred different matters he has to oversee. He has an inbox full of e-mails concerning the stability of the nation, boxes of files concerning vital information on key players in the battlefield of politics. There are so many things that he should be doing, that he'd planned on doing, that he would've been doing.

Instead, he stays there until long after the fire has died, until long after the last ember has dimmed, watching the smoke curl as it rose into the atmosphere and fade in the light of the rising sun, eyes warm, the ashes dusting his lips matching the bitter taste in his mouth.

 _ **end**_

* * *

 **That's the end of this. There won't be any more updates for this though I may eventually write a follow-up fic, of sorts. The idea of Mycroft breaking the news to all those concerned has been playing around in my mind for a while, I must admit. Tell me if you'd like to see that. I'm very busy so no promises but I'll do my best. In any case, thank you for reading this and, please, feedback is always appreciated.**


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